


Full Moon - Full Hearts

by GoldenThrush



Category: The Witcher (TV), The Witcher (TV) RPF, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Professional Romance Writer, Professional Writer, Romance, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22757137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenThrush/pseuds/GoldenThrush
Summary: Rowan is a simple hermit accustomed to life and independence in the wilderness. As a half-elf, she has spent most of her life avoiding humans, despite her clipped ears. Everything changes when she stumbles upon a Witcher, close to death, in her woods. Based primarily on the Netflix original television series. This is a slow burn Geralt/OFC fic. Eventually plenty of smut. Please review! Much more to come! She saves him...he saves her...it all builds to something more.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

**Full Moon - Full Hearts**

**Chapter 1**

It began with the sound of the lake giving way to a great wind. Rowan had been trudging back to her small cottage when she heard it. The days hunt in tow over her shoulder, (2 rabbits and a fat grouse) and the soft light of the late afternoon sun warming the huntress’s limbs. The winter had been mild that year, but long. Frost still claimed the topsoil regularly, so small game still held the majority of Rowan’s attention from woods to kitchen until she could reinvigorate her gardens. The bow slung across her back even felt the wind shift as she heard the troubled water. Fearing bandits or reavers, Rowan quickened her pace, inwardly resolving to abstain from a fire that evening. 

Half-elf by birth and druid by clan, Rowan lived alone but peacefully within the confines of her beloved Elderwood. Decades of war and politics had taught her that, painfully, her own company and only that was best. She loved the Elderwood, and worked hard to protect its beautiful ecosystem. The delicate mosses, the humid mushrooms, the fragrant herbs, and the rare blossoms. The forest sat 22 leagues from the nearest town or port. It was strange to think bandits would bother to fish or bathe so far from other, more civilized woods. Although the occasional ambitious hunting party would grace the woods from time to time in summer, it was odd to think anyone would have an interest in the Elderwood in early spring. Caution and silence in her steps, Rowan moved as one of the forest. A young doe, watchful and mute. Her home was not far now.

Soon, a breath of relief escaped her lips as the clearing came into view. Surrounded by evergreens and a sea of soft ferns her cabin sat. Rowan had spent many months building her home. Laid into the earth and between the thick roots of a great sycamore tree, it waited patiently. The roof was interlaced with moss and clay tiles to offer both shelter and a sustainable water filtration system. Subtle bark coverings along with sun baked clay bricks from the river formed a smart smoke vent for her small wood stove. And hidden planks of strong latticed birch grasped openings in the roots where the druid could let the sun into her home from different angles as the day progressed. Thatched vines and reeds insulated the space, and there was hardly ever a need to lock the door, although Rowan knew a few simple spells in a pinch.

Inside, cork floors provided both give and warmth to Rowan’s naked feet. A wide bed of furs and woven blankets greeted her invitingly. The druid’s sleep had suffered ever since mid-winter. She had considered venturing to the nearest town for a simple remedy from the local mage, but the three-day journey wasn’t practical at this time of year. Besides, it was a trip she preferred to only embark on once or twice a year at most. Although her pointed ears had been crudely cut away as a child, she still preferred the company of the animals of the Elderwood compared to the humans of the province. It was a quiet life and had been so for the last two decades, but it was all she wanted after living through so much war. Peace and balance. The two great loves of those who’ve lived long enough to long for them. Far more than the fleeting pursuit of purpose so many pure-blooded humans desperately sought. 

There it was again. Even so far as her home, she could hear the lake protesting. Splashes and waves swelled on the wind. Something was wrong. This couldn’t simply be the noises of men or dogs at play. Rowan placed her day’s bounty on the floor of her small kitchen and hastily washed her hands. She moved to hang her bow on its place across the south wall, but hesitated. After a moment of contemplation and a passing whisper of regret, the druid wilted, sighed, and slung the bow back over her shoulders. Before leaving, however, she resolved to at least skin and salt her catch. The meat would still take days to cure. Better to start now. There was still plenty of light. But as she worked, a knot grew firm in her stomach. The slashing sounds continued persistently and unnervingly loud for at least a quarter-hour before they finally ceased. Rowan continued to wrack her brain for what it could possibly be, her nerves still tight. 

When she finished her work, she rolled the skins out to dry. She would have to spread them out on the sunning rock in the morning, but for now, they could sit inside safely.

Donning a pair of leather boots she hardly ever wore and another layer of furs (evening would soon arrive cool and damp), Rowan once again strapped the quiver of sapling arrows to her back and slipped her bow over shoulder. Even if her investigation turned up nothing, she would still sleep better (if at all) knowing it was nothing. 

The lake was a 15 minute walk from her home, but it felt much longer as the cherry-bright sun slowly began to fade to the cooler tones of evening. Rowan traversed the brush and woods with long strides and the quick but calculated pace of the doe. Large, hazel eyes caught every flit or quiver from the trees. Soon, however, a strange scent caught her off guard. 

Mingled with the earthy smell of disturbed bog, lake mud, and torn roots, came the scent of the sweat and strife of men and something else completely foreign to the druid. Though the lake was now still, Rowan could see through the last of the trees, her heart began to pound as though the smell had struck her sideways. What on earth could have transpired here? She took her bow in hand and strung it as a precaution. 

Rowan inched toward the shore, eyes darting wildly for some hint of an explanation. Then, she saw it. Black as night, shining like grease, and gasping its last breaths. The gruesome nearly dead corpse of a Mòrag lay sprawled along the far shore. Its flesh had been torn in many places. The gashes leaked dark blood into the water and gave off a putrid smell. Mystery solved. After a moment, the thing lay still and (though naturally blind) its eyes rolled up into its skull with death. Rowan had no idea such a beast had even plagued this lake, or at least, the creature had certainly never bothered her. Mòrags tended to keep to themselves unless disturbed during their hibernation period. Rowan inwardly hoped it had not been some poor young boy looking to play “Witcher”. It so often was. 

Witcher. 

Suddenly the foreign scent made sense. Rowan’s nerves tightened and she clutched at her bow tightly. She had only met one Witcher in her time. A lifetime ago, before the Cleansing. He had been the worst sort. Brutal, racist, and heartless. A glorified assassin who’d served a king even worse in moral standing for the opportunity to profit from the war. Although the vast number of stories about these monster-hunters weren't anything to be relied upon, Rowan has sense enough to listen to her instincts. A half-elf druid was not something to be tolerated by most men. A Witcher, quite possibly less so.

Watching her own breathing, Rowan began to withdraw. If she were careful to stay downwind, she thought, perhaps she could make it back to the cabin without her own scent being carried too far. She had no desire to…

Rowan paused, her eyes caught by something in the woods to the right of the shoreline. Just beyond the treeline, Rowan barely made out the shape of a brown mare. The creature, bridle looped around a tree, stirred and shuffled anxiously. There was no rider to be found. The druid suddenly couldn’t stomach the thought of leaving the animal to starve should her rider not return. Rowan crouched in the ferns longer than she’d have liked as she debated the dilemma before her. If the rider--the Witcher--was still close, she could be endangering herself if she emerged to approach the animal. However, if the rider was long dead…

Rowan toyed with the notion of waiting; remaining in her hiding place until full dark. Perhaps if no one came along before then, she would be safe to help the mare. But a glint on the water further up the shoreline made Rowan inwardly jump. The horse continued to fidget and fret, tugging at her reins to get closer to the shape. No doubt her dead rider. 

Rowan sighed with relief. Placing her bow on her back once more, she rose and cautiously made her way to the shoreline. The mare was distressed, but did not spook when she spotted the small druid approach. Carefully, Rowan let the creature take in her own scent and began to speak a few elvish phrases to calm her. Still, the mare was anxious. She stroked the animal’s nose a few times and began to untie the bridle from its knot, when she suddenly understood the reason for the horse’s odd behaviour. Rowan froze.

The body in the water was still alive. 

Why had she not heard the heartbeat? She did not notice her hand, still warm on the neck of the mare beside her. Trying to check her own breathing, the druid watched, frozen in place, as one gloved hand emerged from the gently lapping tide of the lake. It faltered and tried repeatedly to grasp at the sandy mud. The man was slowly drowning, too injured to pull his own weight from the water. Rowan startled again as the mare whinnied in a frantic tone. Both disturbed yet moved by the animal’s distress for her master, Rowan once again weighed her options. Her frown depening, she grasped her bow and stepped around the horse to approach the figure struggling slowly in the water. 

Lowering herself, Rowan slowly reached for the man’s shoulder. He was stuck in the heavy silt mud. With all her strength, Rowan grasped at the ebony shoulder plate with both hands and pulled. With a great suction sound, Rowan was nearly thrown back on her ass as the silt gave way and the rest of the man burst from the water, rolling onto his back with a gravelly gasp. The druid’s heart raced as she notched an arrow into her bow and waited. Her chest rose and fell heatedly as she watched the creature she presumed to be a Witcher, try to catch his own breath. 

Minutes passed coloured with the sound of heavy breath and the softly lapping of the shoreline. The mare appeared to have calmed down. Rowan still held her bow fully drawn. She considered simply taking her leave, but her druid heart still hurt for the animal should her master not survive. He was clearly badly wounded. A mouthful of blood spurt from his mouth with a cough and a grunt. 

“Valen,” a gravel voice struggled. Rowan’s lips parted in awe. Elvish. The elvish word for... _help_. The man hadn’t even yet opened his eyes. 

“...valen. Haan ovin.” the muddy shape murmured, barely audible. _Help. I’ll pay._

Rowan could hardly believe her scarred ears. It was only after a few more muted noises of pain from the man and her own fleeting moment of rash reflection, that the druid began to breathe properly once more and lower her weapon. Blinking with incredulity, Rowan steeled herself and stepped closer to the figure still lying helplessly in the lake water. Slowly, she knelt and removed the weapons strapped to the black armour. Two swords and a dagger. Tossing them far away up the shoreline, she assessed the wounds inflicted on the man’s frame. A deep gash ran from his throat over his collarbone and down his chest. Likely the work of the Mòrag’s claws. A few more gashes made themselves prominent in the reddening water. One along his ribs and two more across his legs. His face was pale, but it was difficult to tell how much blood he had already lost amidst the water. Under all the mud, a mass of tangled white hair floated in the shallow lake water. Witcher was right. Rowan sighed, hesitating once more over her options. 

The mare whined again. Rowan looked to the beast and smiled weakly. 

“Roach,” the Witcher murmured, his voice weak and filled with pain. “...valen.”

Rowan sighed heavily and shook her head. Perhaps destiny was once more breathing life into her long years. 

“Hold fast. I’ll get him to you,” Rowan spoke softly in elven to the mare. Looking back to the mess in front of her, she startled slightly as two yellow eyes, heavy and weak (possibly with poison from the lake creature), tried to open. The effort was great, but soon they slipped closed again. The lips parted as if trying to speak once more, but failed. 

“Be still,” Rowan offered, once again in elven. The amber eyes remained closed. 

It took the slender elf almost 20 minutes to drag the Witcher’s water-logged body from the lake and place him on the mare. Luckily, there were still one or two perks to being a half-blood. A solid way with horses being one of them. Despite not having lived or worked with them for some time now, Rowan was still able to easily persuade the mare to kneel for her. After rolling that ox of a man onto the animal’s back, Rowan proceeded to lead the creature and her burden back to the hidden path. 

It was almost fully dark by the time the odd party reached the clearing again. After hauling the man from horse to cabin door, the druid paused to look after the mare. She removed the heavy saddle, tied the bridle to the closest oak, and brought the animal fresh water as well as a healthy handful of grains and apple peelings. When the mare seemed at ease, Rowan turned once more to her main problem. 

The man was completely unconscious, but his condition was clearly getting worse. The druid could smell a fever deepening and iron from the progress of his wounds. It would be prudent to get him inside and close to a fire even before dressing them.

Rowan quickly made use of the mare’s bridle and harness, securing them under the Witcher’s shoulders and dragging him inside. She instantly knew she would regret the smell that would surely permeate her home, but there wasn’t much to be done about it now. Once the man was lying stretched out on the floor of the cabin, Rowan made a fire and secured her modest home for nightfall. Once the fire took full form, she rushed to gather the proper herbs and medicines from her cabinet. Every few minutes she would hear a deep but subdued murmur or two from her delirious guest. She made the poultices first, soaking bandages in distilled willow bark, elder-root, and echinacea. The fever, however, would have to be sweat out.

Working quickly, the druid deftly removed the armour, boots, tunic, and shirt, tossing them all into a sodden, stinking pile by the door. She cleaned the wounds as best she could with clean water first. After wrapping the man’s exposed feet in hot towels from the fire, she dampened a clean rag with what was left of last year’s wormwood alcohol and pressed it to the slash across the Witcher’s neck. Yellow eyes shot open and a grunt of pain escaped the man’s throat. When his body jerked in response, Rowan was ready.

“Be still now,” she spoke firmly in common, one elbow on his chest. “You’ve lost a lot of blood and you’re fighting a poison fever.” 

“Mm...fuck,” was the man’s response.

“Indeed,” Rowan replied, somewhat relieved. “Hard part is almost over.”

With that, the druid poured the rest of the wormwood onto the other two rags and applied them quickly. More gravelly cries were quickly followed by more cursing until the pain left the Witcher gasping for breath. Rowan worked even more quickly now, ringing out the poultice bandages and wrapping them carefully around each gash. She finished by wrapping dry, clean bandages over the medicated ones, then laying more hot towels over her guest’s body. The Witcher was still fighting to catch his breath by the time Rowan made her way over to his head with the final towel. This one she dampened with a little warm water and placed over his brow.

“What’s your name?” the druid asked. While she hoped to distract her guest from the pain, she would not ignore the need to further assess this Witcher’s character. Indebted or not, he could still be a threat to this strange half-elf. She rolled part of a fur blanket and placed it under his neck and head. His deadweight was unbelievable. There was no response. 

“Hey,” Rowan tried. “Tell me your name.” 

“Mm…” was the lethargic response between heavy breaths. “...the warmth.”

The little cottage _was_ a bit of an oven at this point. Rowan was also sweating heavily. 

“I’m afraid it has to stay that way for now. You’ve got to sweat it out,” the druid explained to dead ears. 

At that, the Witcher had strength enough only to turn his head to one side and vomit blood and bile onto the fur rug next to them. 

“Fantastic.” Rowan groaned. Such wonderful company.

After rolling up the rug and dragging it outside to be cleaned later, Rowan took up a few of her evening chores while her guest prespired in and out of a feverish sleep by the fireplace. The incoherent one-sided dialogue continued in short bursts now and then, and Rowan found herself curious despite her better judgement. She changed the towels twice and tried to offer her guest fresh water, but each time was met with an incoherent rejection. 

Long after midnight, Rowan decided there was not much more to be done until the fever broke, so she resolved to sleep under the stars outside and escape the smell as much as anything else. Gathering her furs and quilts, she placed a pitcher of water--should the Witcher come round--beside his head and left the cabin for the company of the mare and the Elderwood. Rowan always slept better outside anyway. 

*

Dawn woke Rowan with a soft, golden dampness. Shivering out of her sleep, the druid rose and shook out her furs. The mare grunted gently in greeting. Rowan smiled and looked over her shoulder to her cabin. 

“What have we got ourselves into, eh?” she asked the animal. The mare responded by lowering her head to graze at the sweetfern. 

Inside, the smell was a bit better. The fire had died down to glowing coals and the Witcher still lay pale and plastered in bandages on the furs before the fireplace. Some of the towels had been clumsily discarded. He breathed far more evenly than the night before. It was time to change the wound dressings.

After a few bites of cured venison, Rowan set to work making another batch of willow and echinacea for the poultices. When they were soaking, she roused the fire once more and began unwrapping the old bandages. 

Upon reflection, she probably shouldn’t have been so surprised at how much the wounds had already healed, her guest being a Witcher and all that, but they still needed a lot of work. And the poison was still heavily set in his veins.

Morning afforded far better light, and Rowan was a little taken aback as she worked. This man was not what she expected from a Witcher. He was clearly a formidable warrior, but a gentle nature rested in his sleeping face. Grey stubble ran along a strong jaw and his white hair softened his features in a curious way. There was no guessing his age. 

Rowan shook her head, scolding herself for her girlish indulgences. She had clearly been removed from others for too long. A Witcher was still a Witcher. And she would do well to send him away as soon as he was capable of taking care of that poor mare outside.

“Geralt,” 

Rowan startled as she rolled the old bandage away from the Witcher’s side. He struggled to speak again. 

“Geralt is my name,”

Rowan paused to regain her voice before answering. 

“Pleased to meet you, Geralt. I’m Rowan. You’ve been in a bad way,” the druid replied steadily. 

“Mm,” Geralt grunted. 

“The Mòrag poison is still working its way toward your heart, though there’s less of it now. If it weren’t for the massive blood loss, you’d be at the bottom of my lake. You’ll have to keep sweating it out,” Rowan explained. There was no reply. 

Minutes passed as the druid exchanged old poultice for fresh. The spicy smell of the fresh willow bark extract was a mighty relief after so much Mòrag gunge. 

“My horse,” Geralt suddenly growled after a moment. Two amber eyes shot open with a desperate grimace.

“The brown mare?” Rowan offered. “She’s just outside eating up all my sweetfern. If it weren’t for her, you’d probably be dead. She’s lovely.” 

The Witcher turned his head, looking at Rowan for the first time. His yellow eyes were still heavy, bright with fever, but more expressive in the morning light.

“Thank you...” he breathed low and steady. Rowan couldn’t think of anything else to do but nod in acknowledgment. “...I’ll be on my way now.” he finished and tried to sit up. 

“Will you now?” Rowan scoffed. Geralt instantly fell back onto the furs with a pained grunt and a string of curses. 

“I told you, you have to sweat that poison out or it’ll be your end. Not to mention your wounds.” Rowan gently scolded. Her guest growled in frustration. Who knew Witchers could be so childish?

Geralt appeared to accept his fate with another brooding sigh, and Rowan set back to work. 

And so the day progressed. Rowan made it her business to check on Geralt every hour or so in between her own routines. She prepared the animal skins and meat from the day before for tanning and curing. Chopped more firewood. Tended the herbs. And of course, she saw to the beautiful mare. Rowan liked to think she and the animal were hitting it off quite nicely. The druid took some time to brush out the dust from the mare’s underlayer of hair, scrape the mud and stones from the crevices between the nail of her hooves, and bring her fresh water and grain. Geralt’s fever remained low for most of the day, until shortly after the sun disappeared over the far western horizon. Evening saw things take a slight turn for the worse and Rowan began to fear for what would happen should her guest fall into a deeper sleep. 

“Geralt? Geralt, you should stay awake until the fever breaks tonight. Sleep isn’t safe right now.” Rowan tried as she knelt. The Witcher half opened one eye. 

“Hmm,” he replied in his usual way. “Break the backbone by press. Pressing...Both hands...” 

“What?” Rowan frowned as she rang out the rag for his brow. 

“The backbone,” Geralt replied lazily. “The chicken.” 

Lovely. He was delusional again. 

Rowan sighed and sat back on her heels. She decided to try cold water for his brow and chest for a while. Perhaps that would be enough to keep him conscious. 

It seemed to work. Geralt gave a start as the cold cloth kissed his head and neck. His amber eyes were more brown than yellow in the dimmer light of evening. 

“Sorry,” the druid flinched. “You should stay awake.” 

“You nag like a good mother,” he mumbled. 

“I’ll take that as a complement under the circumstances.” 

“It is.” 

The sound of the fire and the water being rung from more rags filled the little cabin for long minutes. Rowan knew she had to keep Geralt talking. 

“Does she have a name?” the druid asked.

“Who?” the Witcher replied after a moment. His eyes remained closed. 

“Your lovely mare.”

“Roach.”

The druid exhaled a short laugh as she worked. Definitely not what she was expecting, but this pleased her for whatever reason. 

“That’s an odd name for a horse. But I’m in no position to judge. My first horse’s name was Mousse—The food, not the animal.” Rowan chuckled softly. Geralt opened his eyes a little. The druid pretended not to notice how they studied her. 

“It’s fennel oil,” Rowan said after a moment to break the thick silence. Geralt blinked. “You can smell it, yes? It helps me sleep.” she explained. 

“Does it work?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. But my mother used to use it on me. I suppose nostalgia is as good as anything.” 

“Where’s your mother now?” 

“She was killed shortly after the Cleansing,” Rowan said matter-of-factly. 

“Mm...I’m sorry,” Geralt offered with a breathy sigh. 

“It was a long time ago.”

“Was she an elf, or your father?” 

Rowan blinked. He would’ve smelled it on her, of course, but she was still surprised when there was no contempt in his voice. Even so, she proceeded carefully.

“My father,”

“Where’s he?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” Rowan commented dryly. 

“You’re the one who said I should stay awake.”

There was a brief pause. Rowan absently brushed a lock of unruly white hair from the spot under the used rag as she moved to change it. 

“I buried my father nearly 30 years ago at the edge of this forest. He was a talented gardener. A true green thumb. He fertilizes the flowers there now. He would’ve laughed at that,” Rowan smiled.

“Hm,” Geralt replied. Silence once again dominated the little cabin.

“Hey,” Rowan urged after a few more moments. “Stay with me.” 

“I’ll be fine.”

“You won’t. You’ll slip into a fit and your mind won’t be the same in the morning, if you survive the fever. Trust me.” 

The Witcher sighed. 

“Fine. I’ll take first watch. Under the second bridge.” Geralt muttered.

There it was, the fever-talk again. Rowan supposed it was better than nothing. 

“Okay fine. But what will you do if you see unicorns armed with eels?” she jested, rolling her eyes. 

“High ground and powdered goat bladder,” the Witcher mumbled incoherently. Rowan had to stop herself from scoffing. She wondered if any of that were even close to accurate. Unlikely, seeing as how unicorns weren’t real. 

“I see. And what shall we do when the king comes calling with no trousers?” she pushed, smiling slightly. 

“Call Jaskier over. He’ll love that.”

“Alright, I’ll be sure to do that.” Rowan concluded and rose to bring more wood for the fire. “Eyes open. I’m just fetching more firewood.” 

When she returned, Geralt was clearly asleep. 

“Damnit,” she whispered. The druid knelt, dropped her armful of wood next to the fireplace, and began tapping the Witcher’s cheek. 

“Geralt!” Rowan tried. “Geralt!”

Achingly slow, the Witcher’s eyes cracked open. Gummy, and still bright with fever, those amber pools suddenly met Rowan’s hazel frown with a well of dazed concern. Geralt’s grey brow furrowed and he slowly raised one hand to the druid’s own face. 

Startled, Rowan froze, holding her breath like the doe. 

“There’s gold in the green of your eyes,” the Witcher whispered, exhaustion and fever slurring his words. His hand slipped down until his thumb caught Rowan’s bottom lip for a moment before falling back onto his chest.


	2. Full Moon - Full Hearts - Chapter 2

**Full Moon - Full Hearts**

**Chapter 2**

Rowan slept very little that night. A full moon lit the early spring night like curtained sunlight, and her guest remained in the shadow of danger for many hours. The druid established a routine out of keeping him awake. Geralt’s musings were brief and usually nonsense, but now and then he had lucid moments. He often asked after Roach. Complained about various smells. Asked for water. Several times, he would stir from a moment close to sleep or dream in mid-sentence. He forgot Rowan’s name only once, however. The druid was grateful for this. At least she’d made some kind of positive impression. She no longer felt as though Geralt were a potential threat to her safety. 

When he asked for water, she would set whatever it was she was doing to occupy her hands and her mind down, and bring him a shallow bowl of cool water to sip. Tilting his head carefully with one hand, she would help him drink slowly. His white stubble-covered adam’s apple would bob greedily, but exhaustion would always force him to stop before he could get his fill. Rowan would wait patiently with the bowl until he was ready to drink again. Each time, he seemed to take note of this and nod his thanks through that thick feverish haze. His will was very strong. 

When morning finally broke, so did the fever. Relieved she could finally rest, Rowan folded up the extra towels, changed the poultices once more, and lay an ordinary blanket over her guest. 

“I do believe the danger has passed. You should be safe to rest now,” the druid reported as she removed the rag from Geralt’s brow. He was asleep within moments.

Rowan collapsed onto her own bed, exhausted. She didn’t even bother to climb under her blankets and furs. The fire and the deep snore of a Witcher sent her off into a deep and much-needed sleep.

*

When Rowan woke, it was late afternoon. She couldn’t recall the last time she had slept so well. She rose and looked to assess her guest’s condition. Rowan stopped. 

Geralt was gone. 

Frowning, she inspected the little cabin. On the floor before the hearth lay a neatly folded blanket, the furs stacked on top, but no Witcher. Regaining herself, the druid wiped the sleep from her eyes and stumbled over to the door of the cabin to look outside. The mare was gone too. Rowan sighed. 

It was for the best, she supposed. After all, what was she really expecting? A purse full of gold? Any sort of reward? It was enough to know that lovely mare was taken care of. And it was some relief knowing she could return to her own life and routines. She wondered if it was worth trying to get even more sleep, but soon thought better of it. Rowan’s stomach rumbled and she had plenty of chores to catch up on, having lost most of the day already. She set to work making a proper meal out of the fat grouse she’d shot the day before last.

*

It began with the sound of several pairs of boots tromping through dried leaves and the sour smell of warm ale and sweat. Rowan jerked awake as these things permeated her sleep. The moon shone high in the night sky and the cabin still smelled of the stew she’d made that evening. Panic struck the druid hard as her heartbeat overtook thought, deafening her ears and robbing her of sense. Scrambling out of bed, she dove for her bow, shaking and struggling to string the weapon in the dark. 

“Here kitty, kittyyyy!” an ugly voice sifted in through the moss and latticed roots of the hovel. “We know that mutant dog-fucker was here. We’d just like to know where he went with our money, and we’ll be on our way!” 

Rowan was nearly breathless with panic. Her quiver still rested on the hearth mantle. She fumbled with the bow, nearly knocking over the pitcher of water that still sat on the floor, giving herself away. She didn’t dare try to light a candle. The stench of beer-fuelled anger floated into her home. She swallowed hard, clenching her teeth. 

The men; three, maybe four, were nearly stumbling over the entrance to the cabin by the time Rowan had notched an arrow. She could see the light of two torches waving as they moved. The druid trembled as she drew the weapon and aimed for the door. She jumped as an aggressive knock shook the hovel. 

“We know you’re in there, little one. Penny for your thoughts!” one of them taunted. The others laughed. Rowan set her jaw. 

It only took two kicks for the door to swing ajar. Rowan didn’t think. She loosed her bow at the first opening she saw. There was a girlish yelp from one of the men behind as her arrow lurched through the first’s neck with a muted gurgle and gush of blood. Her victim fell forward down the two steps into her home with a great thud, his torch rolling away across the cork in a grim silence that followed. Rowan instantly worked to notch a second arrow with shaking hands.

“You’ll pay for that you piss-blooded bitch!” one of the others shouted as the remaining three men stormed into the little hovel. Drunk, stinking, and angry, they grabbed her arms before she could fully draw her weapon a second time. Rowan yelped as two of them rammed her into the clay bricks of the hearth behind her. The breath was suddenly ripped from her lungs. She looked up, gasping futilely for air as one of the brutish men sniffed her neck. 

“She may be half-elf, but she smells just like any cunt that needs a wedge driven into its pride!” he snarled. The other two laughed again. “What say you, lads? Fancy a quick dip of the wick in this little prize?” 

Rowan snarled between her teeth and tried to knee her assailant as hard as she could with her remaining strength. He stumbled slightly, but the attack was less effective than she’d have liked. Before she could react, another one of the men had his hand around her neck, and pressed a knife to her cheek just beneath her eye.

“I like ‘em with a bit of fight,” he hissed through rotting teeth. 

“Then maybe you should try me,” a deep voice growled from the door. All three men spun to see who had spoken, their grins dropping instantly. 

Geralt stood tall in his armour, a longsword in his right hand, and a look of tedium spread across his face.

Half a moment of incredulity passed through the drunken party before clumsy rage seized them. They turned on the Witcher with crude drive, releasing Rowan from the grip on her throat. She plunged to the floor and gasped for air, fumbling for her bow as she fought to catch her breath. 

Geralt made quick work of the three men. His movements were brutal but sure, and deadly. The first, he ran through just below the sternum and followed up by planting the man’s own dagger into the throat of the second, turning the blade so it exited the neck at a greater angle. The third (the one who’d been strangling Rowan), Geralt strode up to with a somber glare. The Witcher towered over him like death, and death he was. 

“I ain’t afraid of y —” the man was cut off as a sapling arrow slipped silently through his jaw. His eyes rolled up into his head and he slumped onto the floor. 

Geralt turned just in time to see Rowan drop her bow and draw another ragged gasp for breath into her chest.

The Witcher sheathed his sword and hastily dropped to the druid’s side. Without a word, he slipped one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and lifted her in one smooth motion. Placing her gently on the bed, he slipped away as Rowan continued to struggle for breath. A moment later, he appeared by her side again with the pitcher of water and the bowl. Holding her up, he carefully touched the bowl to her mouth. Rowan drank gratefully, coughing and gasping when she had to. 

When she could prop herself up on one elbow, the druid nodded her thanks and Geralt withdrew. He spent a few moments casually inspecting the ale-infused corpses that now littered the floor of the tiny cabin while his saviour regained herself. 

When she was ready, Rowan coughed a little, and spoke roughly.

“I thought you had left.” she tried.

“I did,” Geralt replied simply. 

“But you came back,” Rowan pressed. “Why?”

Geralt turned and looked at her briefly, then swiftly left the cabin. A moment or two later, he returned, a great buck deer slung over his shoulder. He lobbed the dead creature into his arms and let it fall onto the floor before the hearth. Rowan blinked. 

“Thank you,” Geralt grunted. 


	3. Full Moon - Full Hearts - Chapter 3

**Full Moon - Full Hearts**

**Chapter 3**

Rowan didn’t have words. She still fought to catch her breath. For a long moment, the two misplaced figures simply faced each other, chests rising and falling in the aftermath of the chaos. The buck at Geralt’s feet blended into the scene. Another limp body on the druid’s floor. Rowan finally nodded to acknowledge Geralt’s words. Her throat was growing worse. She swallowed a few times and rubbed at her neck. 

“What is it?” the Witcher tilted his head. 

“My throat,” the druid rasped. “...I’ll be fine.” 

Stepping over the third corpse, Geralt silently approached the bed and knelt. Thick callused fingers tipped Rowan’s chin. He smelled of horse, sandalwood, and the night air. The Witcher gently felt at the tiny bones and muscles along Rowan’s windpipe. 

“Hmm. Your trachea is bruised,” Geralt hummed, his yellow eyes scanning the injury. His breath moved a wisp of the druid’s chestnut hair that had come undone during the skirmish. 

“You should try not to talk for a while. Do you have anything for swelling?” he asked, shifting his gaze to meet her eyes. His fingertips lingered on her throat for a moment. 

Rowan nodded, pointing to her basket of herbs by the larder. Geralt rose, retrieved the basket, and handed it to her. The druid nodded.

Looking around at the moonlit floor, Geralt sighed heavily through his nose. Rowan began rummaging through the basket for the correct herbs. Wordlessly, the Witcher began dragging the bodies of the intruders to the door. 

He hauled all four bodies outside into the moonlight one by one. He never did look back to Rowan as he worked. He simply trudged along, a muted grunt here or there as he heaved each man’s deadweight. Geralt’s white hair was clean. Perhaps a trip to the lake during his hunt for the buck, Rowan thought as she lit a few candles for more light. She struggled to keep her mind on brewing the healing tea her throat required. The pain would’ve been distraction enough, if it weren’t for a Witcher silently entering and exiting her home as he disposed of four freshly dead bodies in the middle of the night. What a strange sight it must’ve been, she thought. 

Geralt finished his task by collecting the two discarded torches from the floor. One was nearly extinguished, which he tossed outside. The other, he used to rekindle the fire in the hearth. It was a very cold night. The heavy silence between the druid and the Witcher was somewhat abated once the fresh logs began crackling in the flames. Rowan sat on the bed once more and sipped at her tea, almost grateful she couldn’t speak. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt breathed, facing the fire. “You saved my life and I nearly got you killed...or worse.”

Rowan once again felt at a loss for words; even if she could use them. She looked deep into the mug she held close to her chest. The bitter herbs were doing their work. She wondered if Geralt’s wounds were fully healed. When she finally looked up again, he still stared into the flames, the colour of his eyes harmonizing with the fire. 

Despite herself, and perhaps her better judgement, Rowan swallowed and set her tea down. She rose, wrapped the shall that sat around her shoulders close, and crossed the room. Standing practically under Geralt’s chin, she looked up and tried to pour what gratitude she could muster into his stilted presence. After a moment, he looked at her, nearly a foot beneath his gaze. Slowly, the druid leaned into him, still shaking, and wrapped her arms around his frame. 

It was a long moment before her awkward gesture was returned. The Witcher gradually let his hands travel around the druid’s slender body, pressing her to him in a firm embrace. Rowan nearly jumped when she felt a stubbled chin come to rest on the top of her head.

Rowan couldn’t be sure how long they stood this way. Fastened by a tension, a relief, and an undefinable gratitude between — not strangers, yet not friends. The druid’s scent calmed Geralt, as though familiar. Herbs, rain, and warmed wool. The faintest burst of a faded memory from another life lingered in it. His eyes widened as he held his saviour tightly. His knuckles whitened as though they tried to hold onto something. A desperate attempt to recapture a dream fading from the mind. If destiny were speaking…

The Witcher swallowed hard and slid his hands to her shoulders, releasing her at last. Her eyes were bright with the paling shock of fresh trauma, and the smell of tempered fear and feminine odors began to make his head swim. 

“Rest. I’ll be on my way, now.” he murmured low. A little dazed, Rowan’s lips parted for a moment before closing again as she stepped away. She nodded, swallowing, and turning to more sensible thoughts.

With that, Geralt turned and swiftly left the little cabin, closing the broken door behind him as best he could. Rowan remained by the warmth of the hearth, the dead buck at her feet, silent and dazed with withered adrenaline and empty reflections until morning.

*

_ There’s gold in the green of your eyes… _

Rowan startled awake. A proper spring storm had rushed into her dream just as a great flash lightning pulled her from sleep. Taking deep breaths, the druid watched the light show as rain pounded on the roof of her hovel. 

It had been almost two weeks since her odd adventure with a Witcher. Geralt had saved her life, but the stench of human blood still soured her nose every time she woke or came home to her little cabin after some time in the woods. Replacing the cork flooring was an exhausting thought, but Rowan knew to be a very necessary one. If the weather remained poor, it would take longer. 

Sighing, the druid rose and puttered around her home idly as she waited for the storm to pass. She had been able to utilize the fat from the buck Geralt had left for her, for six more candles. She lit two of these and added a little dried sage to some fennel oil to the clay bowl above. Rowan smiled fondly as the flame grew and the scent began to take. 

_ There’s gold in the green of your eyes. _

Her mind idled in circular thoughts as her fatigue gained ground. Taking a seat at her small table, Rowan rested her head on one arm, willing the sleep to return. Perhaps it  _ was _ worth a trip into town a bit earlier this year. What she wouldn’t give for a night of uninterrupted sleep like she’d had when Geralt’s fever had finally broken. A day of sleep, rather, she supposed. Either one would be lovely. 

The storm continued to rumble and stammer until Rowan had lost most of the feeling in her arm. She rose and ambled back over to her bed and her furs.

*

It began with a smell. A smell so foul, Rowan was once again ripped from her slumber for the second time that very early morning. The smell was  _ wrong _ . A stinging funk of charred, wet leaves? Flesh? Wool? Things were burning that should never burn. 

Rowan stumbled from her bed as her eyes adjusted and she tried to make sense of what was happening. Her nose and mouth, even her eyes, were suddenly assaulted with a burning miasma of fumes and she coughed violently, her eyes watering and her gut spinning. The light penetrating her home was not that of morning, but of fire. Tall and raging, it roared with a terrifyingly callus force. Ash slipped silently into the druid’s home through the small openings between the roots of her beloved sycamore tree. Dull orange tongues of light flickered between tall shadows just outside her small home, the likes of which Rowan had never seen before. 

Retching and coughing against the smell, Rowan dropped to her knees and tried to protect her eyes as she crawled toward the door. Her back was already warm by the time she reached the steps. Fumbling, she turned the handle and shoved with all her might. A waft of cool air met her as she rolled out of her home onto her muddy entranceway. 

The Elderwood burned. 

Her sycamore tree blazed as though Hell had made purchase within. A great wall of fire stretched from south of the clearing as far north as she could manage to see through the smoke and heat of the inferno. Crawling backward on her hands, tears rolled freely down the druid’s cheeks leaving trails in the soot that clung to her skin. She sobbed aloud, deafened by the roaring flames. Branches plummeted to the earth, sending plumes of sparks and heat into the air. The trees groaned and cracked as the fire sucked the life from them where they stood. The heat was unbearable. Shock and despair paralyzed Rowan until pain forced her instincts to take control. 

The druid spun on her hip and found her legs beneath her, shaking but strong. She ran east and did not stop until her own sweat began to chill her skin in the freezing morning breeze. A pale yellow and red sunrise greeted her at the edge of the forest, a mockery of the wild blaze behind. Turning, Rowan fell to her knees and wept for her home. The Elderwood, her Elderwood, was swallowed in flames.


	4. Full Moon - Full Hearts - Chapter 4

**Full Moon - Full Hearts**

**Chapter 4**

It was nearly dusk by the time Geralt had made his way back to the Dunwich tavern for a half-decent meal after the day’s exploits. A small infestation of ghouls had supposedly been plaguing the old tomb just outside of town. The buried miners’ tools and the stench of cold meats, sweat, and watered down ale, however, led Geralt instead to a ratty gang of grave robbers from Cidaris. The young men had cleverly littered the area with torn bits of flesh and fur from various farm animals, adding colour to their ruse. They had not, however, counted on an actual Witcher riding into town. Geralt had simply trapped them in the tomb and collected his coin before simply reporting them to the local Lord to do with what he wished.

The Witcher was met with the usual shift in atmosphere as he walked into the beer-soaked building. A few people moved tables or shifted in their chairs as he approached the bar. He paid for a mug of ale and a bowl of stew with some bread and pungent cheese. Once he sat in the corner with his meal, the noise of the tavern slowly drifted back to a typical volume of conversation, laughter, and the exchange of gossip. 

“If the ash doesn’t kill my crops this year, this horrid weather surely will,” a stale cockney voice floated over to Geralt’s ears amidst the din. “The flames were higher than some of the trees, I heard. Couldn’t have come at a worse time. The soil’s bound to be half silt for miles. Rain, ash, and animal corpses.” 

Geralt turned toward the speaker. Perhaps it was another fire elemental.

“What’s this?” Geralt interjected, turning to the man who had spoken. A hush fell heavily across the tavern. The speaker, a scraggly grey-bearded farmer, hesitated for a moment as he looked to his comrades and back again. 

“Well, the blaze of the Elderwood! Back south down by Old Fellkirk. The whole county’s been on about it. Burned up almost overnight after that great storm two days ago. Rain didn’t do much good, though.” 

Geralt was already on his feet. He crossed the room to the man’s table. 

“Were there any reports of sulphur? A rotten egg smell?” he asked low, leaning in over the man’s chair. The farmer shrank a little in his seat. 

“N—no, Not that I heard...Me and the lads here just came from Fellkirk. The whole thing looked like Hell, but, nothing but wood smoke and the like,” he stammered. “Some folk there suspected foul play, it caught so fast. But I don’t see how anyone could’ve been in and out again.” 

The little food in Geralt’s stomach suddenly turned to lead, and he was moving before the man had finished.

* 

20 leagues Rowan walked. Three days of cold rain and wind. She carried no cloak or covering beyond the shall she had worn over her sleep gown. Her feet blackened and blistered with the cold after the first night, and she began to fear losing the use of her toes. The ground took to frost in the early hours each morning. The druid came across the old road on the second day, but with no head-covering to hide her disfigured ears, she didn’t dare risk walking it. Instead, she kept well within the treeline alongside.

Rowan wept often as she walked. Her gut told her it was best to let it out. The emotions, the grief would pass and she would survive. She sobbed and lamented over everything she had lost. A full lifetime of belongings, memories, and peace. Although the druid had stopped keeping count of her years shortly after her 100th birthday, she felt the loss of it all. Of all the places she’d lived or survived, the Elderwood had been best to her. She hadn’t even thought to grab her bow that night in the chaos of it all. 

The days were straightforward, but harrowing. Forcing herself to rise from the frost, she would trudge onward, sobbing now and then until her body was once again warm from the effort. She would fill her belly with fresh water where she found it and forage where she could, though her stomach remained mostly empty; her limbs frost-bitten and weak. As long as she kept warm and hydrated, she told herself — she could survive this too.

The nights were a blur of exhaustion. With no other option, the druid built a small fire each evening at dusk. Curled around the flame as least, she could keep warm without exhausting herself further. Not for the first time in her long life, hunger became the enemy of sleep, but when sleep did come, it was deep and filled with dreams. 

On the third day, she came upon a wide stream. The heavier rain had gently coaxed the smell of new mosses into the air nearby, and she followed the scent. She found a feast of milk cap mushrooms and bunch berries on the far side of the water and decided to stop for the day here. Her hands and feet were growing worse quickly now. She worked them, pushing the muscles and tendons to move normally as they warmed beside the fire, but she still feared the worst. 

*

That night, the cold became so great and the rain so heavy, even Rowan’s skills for sustaining a decent fire were eventually defeated. She huddled in on herself, her own breath the only weapon she held against the threat of the frost to her digits. The wind bit into her brutally, and she began to consider braving the road. The odds were becoming clearer. She could run the risk of crossing paths with the intolerant, even the malevolent; or she could remain and contend with the cold. The druid’s mind faded and wandered aimlessly as her body trembled, fighting to endure. Before long her thoughts slipped gently from the earth she lay on and into a dark and soothing place. 

* 

  
  


Roach side-stepped anxiously as Geralt gently urged her onward toward a ghostly terrain of sodden ash. The Elderwood had been transformed into a lifeless sea of grey, peppered with the blackened stumps of trees and the shrivelled corpses of animals who’d been overtaken too quickly by the heat; now delicate shells of death. 

“Shit…” the Witcher breathed as he took it all in. 

The alien landscape was made all the more eerie by the occasional squawk of a raven or vulture plucking at whatever flesh remained, if any, between the waves of ash. The Witcher leaned forward and patted the mare’s neck.

“Common, Roach,” he whispered, urging her forward. “We’re in a hurry.” 

Wherever they wandered, Geralt neither smelled sulphur, nor foul play. In fact, he could barely track any one scent as he rode. The acrid smell of “burnt” drowned even the faintest odors that carried on the wind. The longer he spent searching the wood without so much as a hint of life, the more urgently he rode. A steady drizzle began just after midday, but Geralt continued to hunt for any hint of Rowan’s scent until frustration set him on the edge of dread. 

Not long after the light began to fade, he came upon something he recognized. The old road sat still visible with it’s patches of pebbles and well-trod ground. Less than an hour ride from the clearing, Geralt suddenly found himself pushing Roach into a gallop, regardless of the terrain. 

The Witcher was breathless by the time he reached the clearing. He did not know it by its own merit, however. It was the corpse of a giant sycamore that drew him swiftly from his horse. The thing had been scorched down completely, cracked open as if drawn and quartered. The hovel inside could be seen clearly, layered with ash at least six inches deep. 

“Rowan!” Geralt barked. “Rowan!” 

The Witcher raced to the edge of the blackened trench. “Rowan!” 

He could see nothing but a thick layer of ash and mud marking the floor of the druid’s home. Panic started to take hold as his yellow eyes scanned the hovel for any sign. His chest rose and fell as he tried to find her scent. Geralt slid down into what was left of the hovel on his hip, landing in a thick sediment of wet ash. He heaved crumbled pieces of furniture, branches, or brick aside. 

“Rowan!” 

He sifted through the wet ash, heavy and stinking, stumbling on the remaining roots that had collapsed into the small space. Nothing. The druid was nowhere to be found. Nor her scent. 

Geralt finally stopped to catch his breath, the knot in his stomach loosening at last. The light was fading quickly as a heavier rain began to wash the muddy layers of ash from his hands and arms. Roach ambled over to see what was keeping her master. 

“She’s not here, Roach,” Geralt panted. He looked up into the cold rain with a great sigh.

“...She’s not here.” 


	5. Full Moon - Full Hearts - Chapter 5

**Full Moon - Full Hearts**

**Chapter 5** ****

A small noise of protest escaped Rowan’s throat as strong hands gripped her under her arms and lifted. It hurt. She could feel the warmth of a weak winter sun on her face, but her eyes would not open. She found her breath short, but when she tried to take in more air, her chest burned. She thought she could hear the sound of a woman speaking. Her words were gentle. Elven. It was hard to understand what she was saying. As though every third word passed through the druid’s ears like wind. Familiar, the way dreams sometimes can be. But was she dreaming? She could feel the wind, the sun, the bitter cold. The cold had surely taken her hands by now. There it was again. Rowan was unable to feel a line of connection between the muscles in her legs and her feet, but she could feel her hips open and pressure from her tailbone as her body faded in and out of weightlessness. 

“There’s gold in every sunrise, Rowan,” her mother whispered. “Each one you watch makes you wealthier.”

“I know,” Rowan tried to answer. She was so tired. “I’m tired, mum.” 

A hand pressed to her forehead. Rowan once more tried to open her eyes. Her ribs felt as though they had been kicked repeatedly. The pain was unbearable. She wanted to cry out, but her breath would not return properly. She was just too tired. 

“I know,” the voice answered. Or was it her own? Her ears refused to focus and her heart pounded, making it even more difficult to breathe or hear. 

“I...I don’t know where I am. Mum, I don’t know where I am...” Rowan tried to call out. Her words fell flat, a series of meaningless moans that barely escaped her lips. 

Rowan felt the world tip and slide behind her useless eyes. Her hips began to ache as a strange warmth and ambling motion crept into her legs and back. Her bones protested with more pain, stinging, jolting, sobering pain, as her body refused to leave her mind in the peaceful haze where she now drifted. Where her mother’s voice faded in and out. The druid could see her, smell her, but she still felt so far away. The pain and the warmth was dragging her further from…where was she? Her ears hummed, sore and bleary. 

Another hand pressed hard against her sternum as her body slumped forward. Rowan protested with another moan as her head rolled and finally came to rest back on something rigid and flat. She couldn’t keep still the way her body kept being jostled. Motion tethered her. All she wanted was to be still. She wanted her mother back. She wanted her home back. She wanted the pain to stop. She wanted to slip away. Rejoin the earth quietly like the melting snow. The warmth against her legs and back was starting to itch terribly, not to mention the new pain in her neck. What was this? Why was her head bent so far back? 

“Rowan?” her mother whispered. 

“I’m here,” the druid tried to answer. Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving freezing trails as they passed. She still could not open her eyes. Strands of damp hair brushed her neck and face, and Rowan despaired as she heard her mother’s words dissolve in the wind. The dusty smell of horse was strong

“Rowan?”

The hard lip of a saddle front dug into her lower back and she could hear the shuffling beat of hooves beneath her. How she wanted to lie down. An arm was wrapped around her middle, steadying her, but the pain of sitting up was terrible. She cared so little for where she was. All that mattered was the pain. Her Elderwood. Her mother. 

With nothing else, Rowan worked to force her eyes to open. They too, were unbearably tender. The light of that late winter sun stung and blinded the green slits that strained beneath frost-laden eyelashes. She let her head roll forward away from the light. A swath of dark wool that smelled of horse and melted snow, engulfed her body like a nest. So much so, she couldn’t even see the horse beneath her. Rowan tried to get a better look, letting her head fall back and to one side again. Her cheek collided with cool leather and the smell of woodsmoke and sandalwood. A strand of white hair brushed over her face before everything went dark.

* * *

Rowan gasped awake. She lay in a large bed under several heavy quilts. The room was dark and smelled of damp wood, linens, ale, and old candles. Light filtered in around a small window and its heavy curtains next to her. The bed’s four wood posts were tall and lined with carvings. Rowan caught her breath after a moment, but shock still held her body still. 

She had no notion of where she was, what day it was, nor what hour. Though by the light around the curtains, it had to still be day. She certainly didn’t trust her own mind or memories. She tried to go back, searching the wild pool of hallucinations and frost-bitten delusions she could recall from the last 48 hours, she supposed. A wave of nausea hit her hard, and she fought to sit up, to no avail. Neither her hands nor her feet worked. She wiggled until she could see what was pushing into her sides beneath the sheets. Her body was lined with large, hard, round, mounds wrapped in towels.  _ Warming stones,  _ she thought after a moment putting it together. 

Next to her, a small bedside table sported a wash-bowl, a pile of rags, and several pitchers of water, one steaming. The footboard was laden with towels. Rowan experimented more with moving her fingers and toes. Her hands felt as though every bone inside them were broken, but she could force her fingers to move a little. She couldn’t feel her feet at all.

Rowan jumped a little as the door to the little room suddenly opened. A ruddy woman holding a steaming bucket and an armful of towels yelped when she saw Rowan. Sighing, she gathered herself and stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. 

“Oh, you gave me a start,” she laughed lightly. “Glad to see you’re awake.”

“I’m sorry, where am I?” Rowan tried. Her voice was barely there. 

“Oh, of course, pet.” The woman answered. She roughly began turning the sheets down and replacing the cooled wrapped stones for new ones that steamed in the bucket she’d brought over to the bed. 

“Yer in Dunwich tavern. I’m Beth, one of the owners. You got ‘ere three nights ago in a terrible way, but my good husband William and I brought you ‘round. Keenly knocking on death’s door, you were. Like a frozen kipper. But I know a trick ‘er two. Warmed you up right fast here.” Beth reported softly. Rowan sank back into the bed with wide eyes. 

A long silence passed as Beth worked. The woman didn’t try to hide her smile in response to Rowan’s astonishment. 

“How...did I get here?” Rowan asked, trying to clear her throat. Beth paused and helped her guest sip some water from a cup on the bedside table. Beth then finished her work and covered the druid back up with the many quilts again. She smiled warmly.

“Yer Witcher friend,” Beth beamed. “Must say, he’s certainly drawn lots of business this past week ‘er so. ‘Gor he’s pretty, too.” Beth exclaimed, letting out a hardy giggle. The tavern woman sobered slightly when she met Rowan’s dazed eyes again. 

“Comes by every day to check on you, he does,” she finished. Rowan nodded, still a little stunned.

“Here, pet. This little number’ll get those poor spindly fingers and toes of yours workin’ again in no time at all.” Beth moved on, producing a small dark green vile from her apron pocket. She unstoppered the thing and tipped its contents against Rowan’s lips, helping the druid tilt her head to drink. It tasted like rotten milk, but Rowan recognized the signature bitter punch of some magic additive, so she stifled her need to gag. 

“That’s it. Good girl.” Beth coached as Rowan swallowed painfully. The druid nodded her thanks and turned her head to stay the nausea. The pillows felt ridiculously soft on her ears and within seconds she began to feel drowsy. The potion must’ve contained some sleep aid as well. Her ears!

Rowan gasped, fighting the potion’s effect as she tried to touch her head with useless fingers. Her ears remained uncovered. Beth was still collecting old towels when she noticed the druid’s distress. The innkeeper moved back to the bed quickly, easing Rowan’s arms back down to the covers. 

“Oh, easy. Easy little thing. S’alright. Don’t have to worry about any of that ‘ere. Payin’ customers are payin’ customers. Yer Witcher’s seen to that. And no one’ll ever ‘ave t’know you’re ‘ere,” Beth soothed. “Rest now, pet.” 

Rowan didn’t even have time to thank the woman before the potion’s heavy influence had dissolved her body and mind into a deep sleep. 

***** ***** *****

Rowan sat on the edge of the bed, lost in thought. Four days of bedrest. Plenty of time to think on her losses. Next steps. Beth came by twice a day with a meal and a hasty examination of the druid’s injuries and progress. Her fingers had regained almost all their natural colour and she could once again wiggle and flex her toes comfortably. 

She stood, wrapping one of the great wool quilts around herself, and drifted over to the window. The moon shone high and full in the crisp night. Stars spilled across the boundless face of it, and Rowan realized just how vast the sky appeared outside the canopy of trees in the Elderwood. She was nearly made dizzy by it, when the door startled her out of her daze. Beth had already been by with the evening meal. It was late. 

Rowan held her breath, bracing herself for the possibility of being discovered.

Geralt stood in the doorway, his eyes uneasy.

“Geralt,” 

“I’m sorry,” he said low. “I thought you’d still be resting.” 

“I was,” Rowan turned and studied the Witcher with somber eyes. The sleeves of his tunic were rolled to the elbow and his wolf pendant rested on his chest. He must’ve been about to retire. Rowan summoned her courage. 

“Geralt, help me understand...” she stammered. 

He frowned. Closing the door, he waited a moment for her to continue. 

“...Why did you go back to the Elderwood? How did—,”

Rowan was cut off as Geralt suddenly crossed the room in two strides, grasped her face, and crushed her lips with his own.

The druid froze for a moment, stunned. Geralt instantly withdrew when he felt her stiffen in his grasp. It was the first time Rowan had seen fear in his eyes. The Witcher searched her face, a little startled with himself. 

“I’m sorry,” he began with bated breath, releasing her. But Rowan slowly shook her head as her gaze fell to Geralt’s mouth. The druid’s eyes suddenly glazed over with a deep well of understanding, and she looked back up into Geralt’s own eyes with it. Her lips parted. Geralt’s eyes flashed with amber haste, and his lips met hers again, this time with a carefully tempered hunger.

Rowan melted into Geralt’s grasp. Her recently healed hands couldn’t get enough of the feel of his form moving beneath his tunic as he drank from her lips. His calloused hands were large but gentle as they enveloped the nape of her neck or travelled up her spine. His breath moved tendrils of her loose hair easily. He was gentle and careful with her at first, his tongue brushing her lips as he deepened the kiss. His mouth was warm and comforting. Rowan grew almost dizzy as she encouraged him. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been kissed. And certainly not like this. Geralt explored her slowly, letting her set the pace, the rules, with a carefully throttled momentum. His thumbs traced her throat, her collarbone, her jaw. A happily drowning man.

Rowan completely surrendered. Pressing herself to his frame, she gave into every tiny aspiration she could think of, flooded with more as she progressed. She raked her hands through his white hair, traced the strong shape of his jaw, peaked at the pleasure that ghosted across his closed eyes, and let her nails graze across his back. When she ventured to gently nip at his lower lip, Geralt inhaled sharply through his nose and pressed her harder against his own frame. The growing stiffness that pressed against Rowan’s abdomen was unmistakable. 

Now and then, a muffled growl would rumble from Geralt’s throat, reverberating into the druid’s own mouth.  _ This _ sent chills up her spine and warmth into her middle that flowered staggeringly quickly.

Then, just as suddenly as it had all begun, Geralt sharply withdrew. He panted for a moment, holding her shoulders. 

“Rowan, I’m...I’m sorry,” Geralt stammered, pressing his head to hers. “I shouldn’t have…” 

The druid searched his face desperately for answers. 

Geralt kissed her softly once more, then turned and hastily left the room. 


	6. Full Moon - Full Hearts - Chapter 6

**Full Moon - Full Hearts**

**Chapter 6**

Rowan sat, chilled and stunned, on the edge of the bed for a long time. The hours slipped across her eyes as she replayed her evening’s encounter with Geralt over and over again. Sleepless, Rowan paced slowly across the cool floorboards in the light of that full moon. The quilt over her shoulders still smelled of him. 

Returning to the bed, the druid sat once more and leaned heavily against one of the bedposts. She slowly reached up to one ear and felt at the rippled skin there. Her scars didn’t normally bother her, but she couldn’t help but wonder.

She let her hand fall back to her lap. She couldn’t help thinking of the way he had touched her. Let his lips catch and linger over her own. Capturing her sighs...

Rowan shook herself. It didn’t matter how many times she went over it, it still didn’t make any sense. Something had gone unsaid. Yet she had nothing to hide. 

By the gods, she was nearly 200 years old. This was ridiculous. She should know better. The thought of a Witcher caring for her. A half-elf druid. Did he care? Could Witchers feel such things? Of course they could. They begin as humans, don’t they? Then again, who knows what sort of trials and horrors they were forced through. Perhaps embracing another frightens them. Perhaps it is forbidden. It’s not as though she had contracted him to kill some beast for her. 

Rowan paused. Did the Witcher harbour some sort of debt to her in his mind? Or she to him? Perhaps Geralt adhered to such superstitions. It  _ would _ be boorish to bed someone with such an obligation plaguing the mind. What nonsense. 

At that, Rowan decided to put the matter to rest once and for all. She would never sleep if she did not. Gathering herself, she donned the nightcoat Beth had left for her, draped one of the linen scarves over her ears, and reached for one of the smaller oil lamps. Tossing the end of the scarf over one shoulder, she tip-toed to the door and opened it as quietly as she could. 

The inn was quiet and dimly lit. Only a handful of voices could be heard from the tavern below. Still, Rowan padded down the hall as quietly as she could. There was only one other occupied room. The druid crept silently, the dim light of the oil lamp she carried barely enough to illuminate from one side of the hall to the other. When she finally reached the other occupied room, Rowan took a deep breath and summoned all her courage. She raised her hand to knock. 

It began with the sound of wood crashing against wood. Rowan gave a start and turned toward the stairs. Foul sounds of struggle and distress suddenly burst through the calm of the late night. Ugly shouts and the clattering of chairs falling and glass breaking struck her ears hard as they floated up from the main floor of the inn. Rowan’s eyes widened in terror as another unearthly scream pierced the air like the crack of thunder from Hell. Tall shadows began to dance on the far wall, and a swollen burst of fire erupted from the bottom of the stairs. Rowan had begun to back away when the door in front of her burst open. 

Geralt stepped out, sword in hand, nearly trampling Rowan as he moved. 

“Geralt?” Rowan started. But the Witcher was already moving. He gently ushered Rowan behind him with one arm as he started toward the frey. 

“Geralt!” Rowan whispered harshly. The sounds were harrowing. 

“Stay there,” Geralt growled over his shoulder. His hand fumbled for a moment at his side as he produced a small vial of dark liquid from a pocket. Uncorking it with his teeth, he downed the liquid and paused for a moment in the hallway as the potion took effect. He staggered, breathing heavily. Rowan hesitated. He was clearly in pain. 

“Geralt,” Rowan whispered again, terrified. 

When he turned, his eyes were black and crazed with an animalistic fervor. A demonic glower darkened his whole form, and he fought to catch his breath. He simply held his hand up, indicating for Rowan to remain. She nodded, shrinking in on herself and unwittingly backing into the corner of the hallway. 

The Witcher bolted down the hall and dropped down the steps into a whole new degree of noise. More screams added the fray, and a fresh din of violence surged up through the hallway. The splintering crack of fire intensified, and the druid soon smelled smoke. 

Rowan had no intention of remaining. She instantly set the lamp down, threw the shall from her head, and ducked into Geralt’s room. Just as she had hoped, his other sword sat patiently in the leather caddy he carried on his back. She grabbed the handle and yanked the weapon free of its sheath, nearly stumbling with the weight of it. 

Desperately wishing for her bow, Rowan dashed toward the chaos, staggering when she finally saw what was waiting below.

The main floor of the small inn was teeming with the black, slick bile of what was very obviously a fire elemental. Rowan had only ever read about them, but the way it’s twisted, blistered body bled furnace-like heat spoke painfully true. Flames engulfed the inn and leached a powerful and acrid smell into the air as patrons attempted to flee or fight the creature. Tables, chairs, and their occupants lined the walls in bloody piles. Rowan held Geralt’s sword close to her chest as the reality of the scene pressed on her.

Geralt was already engaging the golem, his silver sword flashing through the distorted haze of heat and smoke at the far end of the room. Rowan’s ears numbed for an instant as the Witcher drove the creature back, extinguishing some of its flames with a forceful gesture. After a moment, however, the thing was back on its feet, and more enraged than ever. Geralt’s black eyes narrowed and he cried out as he charged back into melee with an upward thrust of silver. Rowan could see the Witcher’s skin reddening and blistering even from her position at the bottom of the steps. 

Without thought, the druid dropped the sword and forced what little magic she knew into her veins. Reaching out against the harsh heat, Rowan summoned the most powerful barrage of ice magic she could muster. Her effort was desperate, but effective. Crying out, the druid was able to maintain a burst of ice that stunted the flames in a powerful eruption of steam. Rowan screamed, and did her best to shield her eyes. 

The residual blast shoved both Rowan and Geralt to the floor, but the Witcher saw his opening. Keeping the elemental down with two more Aard gestures, Geralt then descended on the creature with a savage series of two-handed blows. The silver did its work and after a few more bloody moments, the golem’s fire was extinguished and Geralt stumbled away from the lingering heat, falling to the side with his exhaustion and new injuries. The inn continued to burn. 

Rowan regained herself and snapped into action. Clambering to her feet, she grabbed up the sword and dashed to the nearest patron she could see through the smoke. Falling to her knees, she shook the man, only to find he was long dead, his face bubbled with red sores and a layer of black tar-like bile splashed across his form. 

Very nearly retching, Rowan moved to the next form she could see. He too was long dead. The flames grew worse as she darted from corpse to corpse. Tears fell freely down her cheeks. Smoke and grief fuelling them. Beth’s body lay under a table across from her. Tar covered the innkeeper’s sunken face. Her skirts were blackened, bound to the skin beneath. 

“No!” Rowan cried. The last of the druid’s hopes collapsed and she released a muted sob against the roar of the flames around her. 

“Go!” Geralt shouted. He himself wasn’t moving. 

Rowan gathered herself and all her remaining strength. She started across the room toward the Witcher. A series of beams and floorboards creaked and collapsed with a burst of sparks and ear-splitting sound as she crawled. Covering her face, Rowan rolled to the side and continued onward. 

“Get out! Go!” Geralt cried, his black eyes straining now. Rowan ignored him, the thought of Beth’s body broken and burning next to her driving all her limbs forward in a fit of rage and grief. 

Rowan could barely see now as she shuffled to Geralt’s side. Blood coated his side and his arms were badly burned up to his elbows. His leg and hip had disappeared into the floorboards beneath him where he had battled the elemental. Rejecting his orders, Rowan forced herself under the Witcher’s arm and drove her legs under him. She rolled with all her might, dragging Geralt’s weight away from the hole enough for him to plant his knee on a safer plank. Moving quickly, the Witcher rolled again, hauling both himself and the druid under him away from the nearest blaze. Supporting each other, the two rose and lurched forward, blind, toward the door. With one last push of Aard, Geralt forced the fire before them down enough to stumbled through and burst through the door into the freezing night. Rolling, Witcher and druid extinguished the last of the lingering heat in the frosted grass, coming to a halt in an embrace of smoke-stained skin and coughs.


	7. Full Moon - Full Hearts - Chapter 7

**Full Moon - Full Hearts**

**Chapter 7**

Rowan trembled with the sudden shift from flames to frost. The inn blazed with intensity and the druid could still hear the sounds of wood beams and floorboards creaking and shattering as the integrity of the whole building began to give way to the fires inside. Gasping, Rowan untangled herself from the Witcher who held her away from the heat. Geralt, meanwhile, was panting in short grunts, still in remise from whatever poison he’d taken. His injuries were now catching up with him, and he worked to breathe through the pain. His arms were red and blistered up to the elbow and the side of his head above the ear oozed with a substantial abrasion. 

Rowan started as a belch of fire exploded from the east side of the inn. She fell back down into the grass, rolling a little as she did. Cursing, the druid jumped into action. Grabbing the hilt of the great weapon with both hands, she shoved Geralt’s silver sword back into its sheath on his back and wormed her way under his left arm. Standing as tall as she could manage, the druid dragged them both slowly toward the treeline as the flames continued to roar just behind. Geralt breathy grunts made Rowan flinch with each step as they made their way to the trees. But soon the Witcher was able to keep pace and took back most of his own weight. 

It wasn’t long before their own heavy breathing and the leaves crunching beneath their feet made up the only sounds of the night. Retreating as quickly as possible into the forest, Witcher and druid hobbled together away from the devilish light behind with determination. Rowan couldn’t be sure how long they rushed like this, their breath disappearing in pale puffs against the black of the night. The cold clung to their damp skin, both chilling and easing the pair. 

It wasn’t until the light of the fire had disappeared, reduced to a bright speck in the distance, that Geralt paused, leaning more heavily against Rowan, and dropped to the ground to take stock. Rowan collapsed as well, relieved and still shaking.

“Are you alright?” Geralt managed after a moment. Rowan turned to him, almost incredulous. 

“I’m fine,” she huffed. “You’re the one who isn’t.”

“I’ll be fine,” he grunted, reaching for the pouch on his belt. He groped around for another vile of black liquid. Dropping it once, he grabbed at it again and worked to uncork the thing. His white hair had escaped the leather binding at the back of his head. Blood shone brightly in the full moon’s light against the pale shade. Rowan plucked the vile from his clumsy hands. Resting on her knees, she uncorked it carefully and held it close to Geralt’s lips. He nodded and tipped the liquid into his mouth. Rowan didn’t let go, however, ensuring the whole dose ended up where it should. 

The Witcher gasped as she withdrew with the empty vile and the potion began to do its work. Moving to all fours, Geralt growled out a number of colourful curses before he collapsed onto one hip and caught his breath. Already, the blistering on his arms was receding, the colour returning to a healthier one. Rowan’s heart instantly quieted. The cold began to set in once more. 

“I’ll make a fire,” she offered, rising to find some dry wood and starters. Geralt didn’t protest.

* * *

It was over an hour before Rowan had a proper fire crackling. She dug out a rounded pit, set large stones into the soil along the edges and worked at the bits and pieces of dry kindling until a small tendril of smoke drifted across her brow. She fed the seed of heat a delicate lattice of dead moss until a tiny tongue of flame flickered out, hungry for the small twigs and dried leaves she cradled at the ready. She blew gently on the flame until it grew to a healthy handful before placing it gently in the cross work of sticks and timber she had collected in the pit. Working away at a practical task was all Rowan could do to keep a dam of grief and anger from bursting violently behind her eyes. 

Geralt was silent. More so than normal. He watched the druid work. He admired her skills, but it would never show on his face. When Rowan was happy with the fire’s strength, she rose and sat on the other side, warming her hands and feet. She didn’t look at the Witcher or bother to speak for a long time. She stared into the yellow flames and let her mind wander, process the events of the evening, even ponder the irony of it--how fire could be so lifegiving, so comforting, yet so violent; life-taking. She thought about her home. Her mother. Beth. The foreign comfort she’d found at the inn. The way Beth had stopped her from...well, the way Beth didn’t mind her ears. And told her so. 

Long minutes passed. Perhaps an hour or more. At some point, Geralt drank another potion. He poured some of the liquid over a small bit of cloth and dabbed at the scrape on his head, tossing the bit of fabric aside afterward. Rowan was finally warm again. 

“Did you know?” the druid spoke low at last. The night was quiet and very still. Geralt didn’t look away from the fire. He closed his eyes and nodded after a moment. Rowan fought back the sting of fresh tears and let her head sink. 

“Was it the same one that destroyed the Elderwood?” she asked, tempering her voice. This time Geralt looked at her. He waited for the druid to meet his eyes. 

“Yes,” he murmured. 

A heavy tear spilled down Rowan’s cheek, but she didn’t break from his gaze. Her expression was vacant, but far away. 

“I’m sorry,” the Witcher offered her in the heavy silence. “I was tracking it before I found the  Mòrag. I should’ve known it would follow me--my scent, after I was injured.” 

Rowan nodded after a moment. She slowly drew her knees to her chin and buried her face in the crook of her arms. Some small part of her had guessed at this for some time, but it was both a gift and a bitter misery to have her suspicions confirmed. 

The druid grasped her own elbows, clutching at the hardy fabric of the nightcoat, and sobbed into her knees for a few long moments. She didn’t care anymore.

The trees stirred overhead with a gentle wind. The fire crackled and flickered softly. The night loomed above, deeply dark, tranquil, and indifferent. Rowan wiped her nose and unfurled herself to tend to the fire. Half blind with her tears, the druid added some more logs and shifted the timber about in an attempt to quell herself. It wasn’t until her eyes adjusted once more that she realized Geralt was no longer sitting across the firepit. He stood beside her, watching with a furrowed brow as she worked.

Slowly, he knelt at her side, sank down on his heels, and gathered Rowan into his arms.

For the second time that evening, Rowan melted into the Witcher’s embrace. Once again, his stubbled chin and throat grazed her skin, his white hair brushed across her face, and his arms enveloped her as if she would fall through the earth if he let go. His wolf pendant, cold against her cheek, suffered a few more quiet tears before the embrace ended.

“Forgive me, Rowan.” Geralt murmured. He brushed some of the druid’s smoke-drowned hair from her face letting his fingers pass over her scarred ear. At this, Rowan finally let herself look up and meet his yellow eyes. Once again, she saw fear in his face. Imagine that. Geralt stroked her scars with his thumb for a moment. 

That was it. It was a gesture that both broke and rekindled her like plunging into that early spring river at first light. It had been what felt like lifetimes, but she knew this feeling, and she would follow it. Without another word, Rowan leaned in and pressed her mouth to his. 

Part of her was amused at his surprise, but it wasn’t long before the Witcher was returning the kiss with a tenderness that almost startled Rowan. Geralt’s kiss was long and deep. He was gentle, barely brushing his tongue against her lip, coaxing her mouth open as his fingertips felt along her jaw. Down her throat, his touch traveled. Down and across her collarbone to the seam of the nightcoat and dress his hands explored, stopping only to ask her with his eyes. Rowan placed her hands over his own and pulled the edge of both garments off her shoulders. 

Though the druid was no stranger to spending time nude in the woods, it had been ages since she was witnessed as such by anything but birds and deer. Her time as a hermit made her both bold, yet still shy in this way. Bold with long swims in the lake or sunning in the clearing of the Elderwood, while still wary exposing her skin to anything but the trees. Perhaps it had stemmed from her ears. She had always preferred to be as covered as possible around others, especially humans. Something about Geralt, however, embolden her; inspired her to cast hesitation aside. Perhaps it was his own disregard for convention, formality, even other humans. Rowan supposed they were alike in that way. 

She wanted--needed to share the earth with him, skin to skin. Commit herself to this feeling. To him.

Geralt rose to his knees, pulling Rowan with him, and leaned into the kiss intently. His hands began to roam across her exposed shoulders, her back, her waist. Rowan ran her own hands up to his chest and began unfastening the length of clasps on his tunic. Geralt almost instantly began untucking the garment from his trousers and lifted it over his head. Once it was removed, both Witcher and druid returned to their kiss with a new degree of fervor. Rowan was already somewhat familiar with Geralt’s form after having treated his wounds for so long in her home; his scars, his firm body, his dangerous strength. Geralt, however, was meeting Rowan in this way for the first time. 

Her green eyes shone with the confident intention and assurance of her long years, yet revealed an almost girlish reserve of wild yearning in the full moon’s waning light. Her soft skin moved gracefully flush, golden, and warm in the fire’s glow. He revelled in the smell of Rowan’s active desire. Her feminine odors ignited an animalistic urge deep within him. The scent of her sweat, her heat, her damp sex, all began to overwhelm him. Without thinking, Geralt grabbed Rowan’s hips and hoisted her up into his lap. The druid responded by wrapping her legs around him and grasping his jaw to deepen their kiss. 

Her tongue challenged his, and they engaged in a sweet battle until they were both short of breath. Her breasts pressed to his chest and her hips rocked against his pelvis now, tightening his breath and his trousers. In a sudden moment of impulse, Rowan took Geralt’s hands and leaned back in a dramatic arch; an invitation to explore her further. Rowan knew it to be typical of a druid to “display”, a carnal yet natural gesture, but it provoked Geralt’s already feral plight perfectly. Releasing a low growl, the Witcher let his hands glide from Rowan’s neck down between her breasts, over her navel, and hook into where the remainder of her clothing rested, bunched across her pelvis.

The Witcher leaned forward, tasting her glowing skin with soft kisses. Her scent overwhelmed him as he reached the fabric clustered at her hips. Reaching forward, he slipped his hands under her back and gathered her to him. Their lips met once again with renewed intensity. Shifting, Rowan’s hands found their way to Geralt’s trousers and began unbuttoning with urgency. Geralt joined her, a frenzy of fingers, clasps, and fabric. 

He was more than ready for her. Without hesitation Rowan rose, shifted the bundled skirt of the nightdress off and away, and wrapped her legs around the Witcher’s hips. 

Their lips parted as she sat there poised over him. Deep pools of woodland green poured into Geralt’s golden yellow eyes, his pupils wide and terribly focused with arousal. Their foreheads met, pressed together like some sensuous prayer as Rowan sank onto him.

A breathy gasp escaped Rowan’s throat as she enveloped him. It wasn’t long before he was buried to the hilt, and a deep growl broke his breath. Rowan slowly rocked her hips. Geralt’s eyes shot open and he instantly clutched at the druid’s thighs, urging for more. His lips once again found hers. His tongue plunged into her mouth as one hand moved behind her head. His fingers grasped at her damp hair and he thrust up into her with a wild fervor that both startled and delighted the druid. 

Rowan returned his enthusiasm in kind. Moving her hands up and over his shoulders, she raked her nails across his back, eliciting another growl from his throat. She adored the feeling of that sound reverberating in her own mouth. Grinding herself down onto him, she continued to roll her hips, setting a slow, strong pace. Before long, however, Geralt was overwrought with the intensity of it all. Wrapping his arms around her, he lifted Rowan and plunged them both to the ground where he continued to crush her lips with his own. His elbows dug into the soil as he cradled her head and plunged into her with that same firm pace. 

Rowan relished the feeling of him filling her, full and strong. Closing her eyes, she planted her feet and arched her back invitingly. The Witcher’s white hair formed a pale curtain around her face as he worked in her, his lips moving across her mouth, jaw, and neck. Her hands found his arms, his back, his scars, as she dug her fingers into his skin, encouraging him. 

They both fought for breath as their pace began to naturally hasten. Rowan felt her body ramping up to a crest of heat as Geralt’s thrusts continued without reserve. She let him know by sinking her teeth into his shoulder as he moved to suck at her neck. This provoked another growl and a new tier of urgency from the Witcher. His mouth locked with hers and his thrusts took on the frantic, wild, quality of his eyes. 

The trees overhead swayed lazily against fading stars. The contrast loomed so great, it was as if another world lay just beyond their union in the firelight. Rowan felt she lay worlds away, Geralt of Rivia astride her bare form, drinking her in, labouring blissfully inside her, as if she were the last joy he would ever know. 

A gasp followed by a nearly breathless whine breached Rowan’s lips. Achingly slow, she arrived at a summit of pleasure, tumbling down the other side with wave after wave of warmth. Geralt joined her, grunting with staggering stride. 

It ended as it began. Foreheads pressed together, sober as prayer. Druid and Witcher, panting and spent, opened their eyes and rejoined a world where the fire had grown sluggish and the first suggestions of morning, faint and blue, coloured the night. 

Gathering himself, Geralt withdrew and retrieved his cloak from the over side of the fire. A moment later, Rowan found herself wrapped in the dark wool, a Witcher, silent and somber, encircled around her half-elf form. 


End file.
